


Sunday Morning

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [19]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-11
Updated: 2007-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Sunday morning after daylight saving kicks in, and no one's very awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> [Now with artwork](http://megaloo13.livejournal.com/189790.html) by Megaloo13!

It's the first real warm day of spring, the sky overhead a fragile blue washed clean by rain, the dry dust of winter's end turned dark, damped down, green at its edges as grass and daffodils lift their heads to test for sunlight and the longed-for blessing of slow, sweet air. John slumps in his chair, legs sprawled wide, a cup of coffee held safe in his hands. His head's tipped back, his eyes closed, and the idea of a smile hovers at one corner of his mouth as he listens to the song Finn's singing inside, a discordant rumination on the virtues of Cheerios, his faltering voice drifting through the screen door and out to the yard.

The screen door slams and John opens one eye. "He alright?" he asks as Rodney shuffles to collapse in the chair beside him.

"Mmmmm," Rodney nods, nose in his coffee mug. "Bowl of cereal, big as his head."

The words of Finn's song grow temporarily indistinct, no doubt a function of a mouthful of breakfast. John sips his coffee, lets out a breath, and reaches out with his left hand, palm turned up, empty and tentative, almost waiting. Rodney slips his right into the vacant space, links their fingers and squeezes just a little. John smiles.

"Daylight saving blows," Rodney mumbles, thumb running gently over John's callused knuckles.

"Mmmmph," John agrees, pulling on his coffee, kicking his feet up on the porch rail.

"Stupid idea thought up by – " Rodney waves his mug. " _Politicians_."

"Brrumph," John offers.

Rodney sighs and drinks again. Finn's song finds its renaissance with all new verses about marmalade and apple juice, accompanied by the irregular beat of Burp's tail against the kitchen floor. It's highly possible the dog's scoring contraband treats, John reckons, since he's never noticed a particular talent for music in their mutt before now. He breathes out slow and swings his hand, pulling Rodney's along too. He likes the soft brush of the breeze against the inside of his wrist.

"So," Rodney yawns, blinking stupidly. "Today?"

"Hmmmm?" John's eyes are half closed.

"Plans?"

John shakes his head. It's too early for plans, too Sunday, too _spring_.

"Nothing?" Rodney yawns again.

John shakes his head.

"No really – I mean . . . don't you have things you want to do?"

Finn ramps up his performance with percussion and screeches, his spoon hitting table and salt shaker and bowl. John turns his head, smiles lazy and sure, squeezes Rodney's hand again. "Just this," he murmurs, and Rodney blinks, then smiles, cheeks flushing slightly under John's gaze.

"Nuts," he offers as judgment after a second, but he lifts their hands to his lips, kisses John's fingers, and closes his eyes as if he might give in.


End file.
